Quiet Girl, Filthy Mouth

I work in a library. People think I’m sweet. They smile at me when I stamp their books and say thank you in that soft voice I practiced for years. None of them know what I sound like when I’m on my knees with a cock shoved so far down my throat I can’t breathe properly. Last night I went home with a man I met at the pub after my shift. He was rough with his hands and I liked it. I told him, very quietly, that I wanted him to fuck my face. He laughed like he didn’t believe me until I opened my mouth and looked up at him. He grabbed my hair and pushed in. I gagged immediately. Spit ran down my chin onto my nice work blouse. He didn’t stop. He held me there and thrust until my eyes watered and my mascara ran. I could taste him, salty and thick, and every time he hit the back of my throat I made this wet, broken noise I didn’t recognise as mine. He pulled out just long enough for me to gasp, then pushed back in and told me to swallow around him. I did. My jaw ached. My throat felt used. When he came he kept my head still and flooded my mouth. I swallowed most of it. Some spilled. He wiped it off my lip with his thumb and made me suck it clean. I went home after, changed my blouse, and lay in bed touching myself while I replayed the way he’d used my mouth like it belonged to him. I still have the taste. I want it again.